Breakfast is a meal apart. It isn't like the other organised consumptions of food in which I partake. It is a meal for which I am sometimes obliged to pay with my own money. Today, the blonde is lying abed and there is no one on hand to serve me at home, so I head to The Wolseley - conveniently close to my Savile Row tailor - to break my fast.

Piccadilly is chilly and dark as my chauffeur pulls up outside. I step over the human detritus of the night before, and allow the doorman to take my cashmere coat as I am welcomed into the timeless grandeur of the seemingly fin-de-siècle dining hall. The jolly Nigerian cleaner bows courteously.

At the front desk the maître d'hotel is going through his reservation list. The names come with a code, abbreviations to note "regular", "very regular" or "smug twat". He shows me to my regular table, shielding me from the glare of the arrivistes who are seated nearest to the entrance.

Hidden away in the kitchen, the tourier, a Malian, or possibly Bangladeshi immigrant, has been turning the dough for the croissants for 12 hours or more. It's a thankless task, but Viennoiserie is all about attitude. I take a bite out of my croissant and let its texture dissolve on my tongue, before leaving the rest unfinished on my plate; it will be a welcome morsel for the Brazilian plongeur

There are few things quite as xenophobic as breakfast. Apart from me. So the Wolseley must cater for all tastes. Even Americans. I peruse the menu and order Eggs Benedict, the Marilyn Monroe of brunch. Hollandaise sauce is considered tricky to make, but it's actually a simple mixture of physics and thermodynamics that even an Italian chef can make.

The perfectly fried egg

· Crack one Duchy free-range egg into frying pan with knob of butter.

· Have a tantrum and send it back if not completely satisfied.

Nothing, though, can compare to the glory of the Full English. Foreigners may look askance as the waiters bring a cacophony of piggy-ness to my table, as few of them have the stamina or resolve for bacon, sausage and black pudding at this early hour. And it is true that, once the Full English has been consumed, you can be often overtaken by the need to go back to bed again. This is not a problem that unduly concerns me as I seldom have anything to do before lunch anyway.

There are 13 varieties of coffee at the Wolseley. This abundance of choice may be more than sufficient to satisfy the palates of City artisans and denizens of the media demi-monde, yet I still insist on summoning the Jamaican barista to check that the Blue Mountain beans have been harvested from the eastern flank of his private estate.

The perfect cup of coffee

· Ask for unlisted Arabica blend, but remember that the Indonesian, Kopi Luwak bean is considered distinctly nouveau riche

· Shout loudly at South African waiter to check water was heated to between 97-98C before being poured on to ground coffee.

Cereals were invented in America to promote colonic health and, as I reluctantly swallow a mouthful of muesli, I feel the onset of a bowel movement. I walk to the loo, casually noticing the checkmate in 17 moves for the person playing black as I pass the idiosyncratically placed chessboard. The lavatory attendant unfastens my trousers and polishes the bowl as I enter the stall. A self-satisfying movement follows and I look down at my perfectly formed excrement. And wonder just who on earth will buy it?